Golden Key, my four day meditation weekend, launched with an intense, extremely bizarre dream.
So, I’m in the trailer I grew up in(for anyone who doesn’t already know-I grew up in a wierd hippie commune in the Northern Maine woods).
I’m there with a bunch of friends, adults, but somehow child-like. I feel responsible and protective of them. Two nasty, cruel, large, powerful, muscular dudes arrive and bully their way in. They are taking charge and I’m trying to hide my ‘kids’. But it’s too late, they’ve already seen us and my people are dragged outside.
I’m powerful, I’m not afraid for myself-I know they can’t kill me-but my friends are lined up out in the garden and the demon(I’ve recognized now that one of the evildoers is a major demon) is killing them one by one.
I know I can’t do anything until just the right moment, so I stand on top of the stone wall that borders the garden, watching my people fall. The fourth man in line is very dear to me and when the demon reaches him, it turns, grasps my eyes with it’s piercing gaze and grins maliciously. I step forward, knowing it’s almost time.
The demon grasps the man by his neck and ankles and bends him, turning him this way and that like a doll. The man shrinks, wriggles painfully and turns blue and the demon humiliates him deliberately and provocatively, laughing this raw, crackling laugh, then smacks him hard again and the man disappears.
I walk towards the creature, angry, but crisply and decisively so. My movements precise and articulate. I’m face to face with it suddenly and it pushes it’s nasty face up towards mine. I suddenly know it’s going to kiss me and gross as that seems(imagining slavering demon tongue), I lean into the kiss.
The demon kisses me, parting my lips with it’s hard, hot wetness and I feel something tiny and edged slip into my mouth. I pull back and the demon laughs.
This little hard thing is on my tongue. I spit it into my palm and horrified, see it’s a miniature, perfect, white sculpture of my friend.
A voice speaks: ‘You have to be quick’ I turn towards the fallen bodies.
It’s his mother, his dead mother. She looks at me and though she’s still dead, she tells me to put the tiny likeness into his skull. And, there, laying by her feet is a dry, yellow skull.
It’s his. I know it. I’ve felt that skull under my fingers… I pick it up. There’s this little eye-shaped crevice in the back of the cranium. I look at the figure in my palm and see that it is starting to crumble. Hastily, I place it in the crevice and press-it melts into the bone and the skull shrinks, fitting nicely in my hand. It feels solid, slightly warm, smooth and good to hold onto, like the small ocean-smoothed stones I sometimes carry in my pockets.
I walk away, holding the small yellow skull wrapped in my fist, like a talisman.